


perihelion

by Archadian_Skies



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alive Carl Manfred, Gen, Leo Manfred Redemption, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Poetry, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:07:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24455656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archadian_Skies/pseuds/Archadian_Skies
Summary: He feels furthest from Markus when they sit like this, shoulder to thigh on this narrow winding staircase bracketed by poems. He is a hapless planet trapped in an orbit around Markus, their bright star, and this is his aphelion, when he can feel the greatest distance yawning wide between them.They are too different, this work of art for an artist that reads poetry from aged paper bound in linen, and an obsolete PL600 far past its expiration.
Relationships: Markus/Simon (Detroit: Become Human)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 87





	perihelion

**Author's Note:**

> perihelion (ˌpɛrɪˈhiːlɪən)
> 
> n, pl -lia (-lɪə)
> 
> (Astronomy) the point in its orbit when a planet or comet is nearest the sun.
> 
> [C17: from New Latin perihēlium, from peri- + Greek hēlios sun]

The revolution ends, and his life does not; it had been an expectation of his, to die for the cause because he’s only good for martyrdom. Becoming a martyr would’ve been the merciful thing to do, because he would’ve been spared this uncertainty, this unplanned epilogue. There’s no place for him in this post-revolution Detroit, this Detroit needs Markus’ leadership, needs Josh’s eloquence and North’s fire; Detroit does not need his caution, his hesitation, his reluctance, his aversion to risk. 

The fight is not over, not by any means, but it’s different now, it’s fought on a political front instead of a literal one and winter rages outside, blanketing blue-stained pavements and Markus strives to make sure the people do not forget that they walk on grounds built by the blood spilled on them. This is Markus at his best, Markus at his most powerful, with Josh’s sage advice, all of American History in his head, and North’s burning perseverance, her unyielding determination. Simon finds himself at a loss now the fight is over, now they are free and no longer have to hide. What is his purpose now? He doesn’t have all of American History in his head to draw from, and he lacks the fire that burns inside North- he can’t even keep himself warm, literally, because of his broken thermal regulator. 

Markus invites him to stay with his father, Carl Manfred, in his beautiful manor filled with art and colour and more importantly- warmth. He tries to make himself useful but Carl already has a domestic android, an AP700 named Sean, because of course the only one who can replace Markus is CyberLife’s flagship model. His very presence seems to irritate the AP700, who looks at him with disdain as if he can’t understand why the leader of the revolution would choose to let an obsolete PL600 into his home. 

Carl Manfred himself is still recovering from a bout of ill health exacerbated by the altercation that saw his biological son concussed and his android son executed. He is sharp and witty, kind and patient, and warm too, and Simon can see why Markus is the way he is, the leader he is today. Though Sean is Carl’s primary carer, he spends a lot of time with Simon, engaged in conversations that range from the very shallow to the deepest depths of humanity. It passes the time in a pleasant way, and keeps Simon from idling because an idle PL600 may as well be a dead one.

Simon meets Leo Manfred one day, when the prodigal son returns from the hospital to make amends with his father. He comes, proverbial hat in hand, to apologise and beg forgiveness and Simon thinks that it cannot be solely on him to make amends. He coaxes Carl to extend the olive branch, he makes sure Carl is ready to reflect on his own behaviour, behaviour that saw them estranged in the first place, so he can meet Leo halfway. The young man’s life is in pieces, and he cannot hope to put them back together by himself, no he too needs kindness and patience and warmth. This is perhaps the only thing Simon is good at- keeping house, and by extension keeping families together. A happy, safe environment is what he was built to nurture, what PL600s were created for and he will do the same here in the Manfred manor as he did once in the rotting hull of the freighter they called home for so long. 

Markus never uses the manor to discuss anything work related, and Simon learns quickly it’s because the manor is a place sacred to him, a place of safety and respite. It’s the place where he rests his hearts, and though it may be pity that sees Simon sharing this space he still feels grateful.

Time has a way of passing differently when he is inside the manor. The outside world is barred from this place and it cannot reach him the way it claws at him, clutches at him, when he is Simon of the Jericho Four. His time is not his own out there, it belongs to their people, it belongs to their cause and they are expected to carve out themselves and give their pieces away until they have whittled themselves into matchsticks, until they have burned their wicks into stumps. He is exhausted, he has been exhausted for years now, and it’s something he has grown accustomed to albeit reluctantly.

Here, though, here no time passes because it’s a world within a world. Carl’s library spans across not only the main living space but spills into the walkway to his room. There are books from floor to ceiling and on more than one occasion Josh has declared it’s his most favourite space in all of Detroit. Simon agrees, not because he’s enamoured by the collection but because it puts Markus at ease to be there. When the humans are asleep, Simon will often find him with a book in hand, lost to its contents, if he isn’t painting up a storm in the studio. It’s how Simon finds him, nearing 3am when they are due to appear on a morning show in six hours.

_“Sing me no songs of daylight,_

_For the sun is the enemy of lovers.”_ He sits on the winding staircase, book in hand but eyes fixed on the snow falling relentlessly outside the window. 

_“Sing instead of shadows and darkness,_

_And memories of midnight.”_

“Midnight was three hours ago.” Simon keeps his tone light, not wanting to sound overbearing in his chastisement. 

“It’s Sappho.” Markus smiles apologetically, closing the book and reaching across to slide it back into its place on the shelf. “Only fragments of her work survived, but Carl’s always been fascinated with the different interpretations pieced together with what was left.”

“You need to rest.” He reaches out and gently touches his arm because he can do this much, he has courage enough for this much, Markus can tolerate at least this much from him.

“My head’s too full.” He frowns and Simon sits beside him. It’s a snug fit on the narrow staircase and it means they’re pressed together shoulder to thigh, the closeness almost intimate in a way. 

“So you thought you’d fill it with more things?” Simon teases and Markus laughs, expression sheepish.

“Better things, I guess.”

Simon looks over to the corner bookshelves. “Do you have a favourite?”

“Poet?” Markus shakes his head. “No, I can’t say I have a favourite poet. I haven’t found a poet whose works I like in its entirety, though I have favourite poems.”

His eyes roam over the titles, and he stretches over to pluck a hardbound black linen book, placing it into Markus’ hands. The other android immediately flips it open to a certain page.

_“It was many and many a year ago,_

_In a kingdom by the sea,_

_That a maiden there lived whom you may know_

_By the name of Annabel Lee;”_ He recites Edgar Allan Poe with that beautiful, rich voice of his and Simon lets it wash over him like soft sea foam at the shoreline. 

_“And this maiden she lived with no other thought_

_Than to love and be loved by me.”_

He lets Markus finish the poem, he soaks up that rich mellow tone before he takes the book from his hands and closes it, returning it before coaxing Markus to head to his room to rest. This sacred space is shared with him too, for however long Markus’ good graces and patience extends. Carl gave him a bedroom, and a bed, and a drawer of pyjamas and a wardrobe of clothes because Markus was an extension of the son he rejected and so Markus spent his early life living as not quite an android and not quite a human, but certainly more human than android. Simon puts on a pair of borrowed pyjamas, and he feels he is on borrowed time as he curls beneath the covers with the android who changed the very course of history. There will come a day when he must repay all this kindness, and he hasn’t the slightest clue how.

“I hate talk shows.” Markus mumbles, and Simon huffs a laugh. 

“I know.” They’re almost nose to nose, and he can count the freckles speckled across his handsome face. “But the world needs to see us pretending we like talk shows.”

Markus rolls his eyes but he’s smirking so Simon considers it a victory. He closes his eyes with a sigh, features relaxing as he enters stasis. They are close, and he is closer than any android’s ever been to Markus but even now he feels a chasm between them. Each and every night they share a bed and Simon feels like a wall of glass separates them, keeping apart the relevant and the obsolete. Markus has allowed him into his innermost sanctum but Simon does not belong here, cannot ever belong here. He is here because Markus is kind, and one day the kindness will be needed elsewhere, by someone who belongs, and Simon must leave. Poets, Simon muses, with all their words all their pages waxing lyrical paragraphs about emotions, should take this pain and give it a name.

He is a selfish creature, rotten with greed and it’s greed for Markus’s melodic voice that sees him leaving Percy Shelley on the winding staircase where Markus takes to sitting when he is restless. The android holds the book with the same care he handles all things, and his smile is soft with amusement when Simon sits beside him.

_“Music, when soft voices die,_

_Vibrates in the memory;_

_Odours, when sweet violets sicken,_

_Live within the sense they quicken.”_ Simon looks at the words printed on the page and wonders how it is that an android can breathe so much life into them when androids have no breath at all.

_“Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,_

_Are heap'd for the belovèd's bed;_

_And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,_

_Love itself shall slumber on.”_

He feels furthest from Markus when they sit like this, shoulder to thigh on this narrow winding staircase bracketed by poems. He is a hapless planet trapped in an orbit around Markus, their bright star, and this is his aphelion, when he can feel the greatest distance yawning wide between them. They are too different, this work of art for an artist that reads poetry from aged paper bound in linen, and an obsolete PL600 far past its expiration. 

“This one.” Carl hands him a book one stormy afternoon when the manor is an Ark and the world is drowning outside. “I think you’ll like Ms Leav’s works.”

He doesn’t dare open it, but he leaves it on the staircase; an offering, an invitation.

_“When words run dry,_

_He does not try,_

_Nor do I.”_ Markus speaks to him not from the staircase but from the level above and not even the storm outside that’s raged all day and into the night can silence his mellow voice.

_“We are on par._

_He just is,_

_I just am,_

_And we just are.”_

We just are, Simon thinks, _we just are_.

“Carl loves Ms Lang Leav’s poems. She signed this copy herself when she was on her book tour.” Markus opens the hatch and descends the winding staircase until he’s eye to eye with Simon. “She’s a little too melancholic for me. Her works often speak of heartbreak and sorrow.”

He offers the book to him, and Simon takes it, thumb brushing over her name. “Perhaps her melancholy is better suited to my tastes.” 

“She’s written some beautifully romantic ones too.” Markus comes around to his side, placing his hands over his so he can open the book.

_“When I used to look above,_

_All I saw was sky;_

_And every song_

_That I would sing,_

_I sung not knowing why.”_

_“All I thought and all I felt,_

_Was only just because,_

_Never was it ever you-_

_Until it was all there was”_

The rain lashes against the windows incessantly, the background soundtrack to what Simon supposes is this romantic scene tinged with melancholy. All he can focus on is the fact Markus looks exhausted. To others they would see the handsome, charismatic leader of androids but Simon knows what exhausted looks like; it’s a reflection of his own face. 

“Don’t spread yourself so thin, Markus.” He says quietly, closing the book before her words can add more ache to his already struggling hearts. “You didn’t survive a revolution only to fall to politics.”

“I’m trying.” He closes his eyes, expression pained. “I’m trying so hard but I feel like I’m falling apart at the seams. It’s never enough. Whatever I do is never enough.”

“It is.” Simon assures him, voice firm. “You are enough, Markus Manfred. You just need to take care of yourself better. Listen to this old PL600, hm? Caretaking is all I know, and I know for a fact you’re wonderful at caring for others but awful at caring for yourself.”

Markus looks at him, brows furrowed and expression thoughtful. “You just described yourself, by the way.”

“This is what I was built for,” Simon argues, “I am meant to care for others.”

“And you’re wonderful at it.” Markus smiles tiredly, squeezing his shoulder and trailing his hand down his arm until he holds onto his. “You being here is a great comfort to me, Simon. You tether me, keep me grounded, prevent me from getting swept up by it all. Thank you.” A pause and there’s a spark back in his eyes, a little mischief amongst the fatigue. “So you have to cut me a deal- I’ll take care of myself better if you do, because I need you with me. The air I breathe in a room empty of you is unhealthy.”

“...we don’t-”

“It’s Keats.”

“No more poetry after midnight, I’m implementing that rule right this second.” He scolds and Markus laughs and Simon feeds this memory to his hearts to help keep the pain at bay.

They go to the White House and he wears clothes that are not his, clothes chosen by Carl Manfred from his enormous personal collection and Simon plays a part in this grand show, Simon pretends he is Clever and Determined and Steadfast and a whole host of other things he is most definitely not. Markus stands resplendent in designer clothing that clings to him like royal garb, and he is ra9 incarnate, a thunderous look on his perfectly sculpted face and when he talks the world listens.

It lasts until they retire to their hotel rooms and he doesn’t bother going to his, he heads straight for Markus’ room because he will not let him fall apart alone. Markus is too far from home, there is no warmth to be found in these four walls no matter how pretty the view. There is no studio, no shelves of paints, no stained palette and jar of brushes, no empty canvas upon which he will throw great swathes of his soul. There are no bookshelves crammed with stories, with poems, there is no winding staircase upon which he will sit shoulder to thigh with him until his head is full of better things. The android standing by the window, lost in his thoughts, is the android at Jericho hours before the FBI raid, the same android in the church hours later quietly, silently falling apart with none the wiser. None but Simon, because Simon is all too familiar with falling apart, of course. 

He takes his hand and tugs him to bed, and Simon sits with his back against the headboard, coaxing Markus to lay his head on his lap. Had he an LED, it would be bright red, and Simon fancies his stress almost tangible. So Simon does what he does best- he takes care of him. He was not raised by Carl Manfred on the Arts, no, he is but a humble PL600, a domestic, and his head is not crammed with poems or philosophy, it’s crammed with children’s stories.

_“Today you are you, that is truer than true._

_There is no one alive who is you-er than you.”_ He recites Seuss because he’s familiar with Seuss, not Shelley, and he thinks Shelley never had quite the right words for this moment.

_“Shout aloud: I am glad to be what I am._

_Thank goodness I'm not a ham, or a clam, or a dusty old jar of gooseberry jam.”_ Markus hums in amusement and Simon smiles as he continues, hand gently stroking his shaved head in a soothing manner.

_“I am what I am, what a great thing to be._

_If I say so myself, happy everyday to me.”_

Little dots of moisture bloom on his trousers and if he feels Markus start to cry, feels his shoulders shake with the effort of releasing all he’s held back for weeks now, well, it isn’t his place to point it out. So he says nothing, because sometimes saying nothing is the best thing to say. 

The Sentient Life Act passes, granting androids the status of living beings. They are Alive, and it’s now legally recognised. It is their greatest triumph, and Markus is in his element once more when they return to Jericho to the cheers and roars of their people. He radiates pure joy and Simon can only bask in it; this is his perihelion, the closest point between a lonely planet and this bright star and so what if it burns Simon, if it consumes him and reduces him to ash; he will rise from these ashes and begin anew as someone stronger, someone worthy of a place in his life. 

They leave while the celebrations are still in full swing because Markus needs to go home. Ten days is far too long to be parted from the home where his hearts lie, and Simon will not allow anything to delay him any longer. It’s just shy of midnight when they curl up in bed and even now Markus is still smiling, though the radiant joy is perhaps a simmer, a soft glow of happiness that twinkles in his mismatched eyes and crinkles the freckles on his cheeks. 

_“I love you, I do-_

_You have my word._

_You have all my words.”_

Simon feels his hearts stutter, unsure if he correctly heard those words, and then he’s sighing heavily at the realisation. “No poetry after midnight, Markus.”

“It’s only three minutes after midnight, surely I’m forgiven?” 

“I’ll let it slide this one time because technically we’re still meant to be at a party.” Simon says sternly and he chuckles. Markus looks at him the way he reads those poetry books; scrutinising each word, each letter, absorbing every detail and committing it to memory. His touch is soft and warm as he trails his fingertips along his brow, the curve of his cheekbone, the slope of his nose, the cleft of his cupid’s bow. Leaning in, he presses their lips together and Simon lets himself be consumed and reduced to ash.

“I love you, Simon.” He breathes new life into him, and he is no longer the android rotting away in that freighter. The poets, Simon muses as he seals his mouth with his again, with all their words all their pages waxing lyrical paragraphs about emotions, already gave this pain a name: Love. 

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who's back on her Simarkus bullshit /finger guns  
> [Carl's winding staircase DOES lead somewhere](https://twitter.com/BlueOwlzMedic/status/1205477767598333952)  
> [I'm still on this hellsite.](https://archadianskies.tumblr.com/)  
> ([Matching Tumblr photoset](https://archadianskies.tumblr.com/post/619624906779410432/the-air-i-breathe-in-a-room-empty-of))


End file.
